BBC Life on Mars - Ray Carling's World War II Childhood
by Philip Glenister tomboy
Summary: Detective Inspector Gene Hunt's Guv always speaks fondly of his World War II Childhood when DCI Ray Carling was aged between five to eleven in 1939-1945's Manchester; but he and new PC Sam Tyler are sick of this, working out how he became a bully among the Greater Manchester Police Stopford House Police Station. Set between 1988 and 2006.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter #1:** __Ray Carling's World War II Childhood_

 **Years later in June 2003 to January 2006 on the _BBC People's World War II documentary_ on an archive of the years 1939-1945 in Manchester, Ray Carling recalls his childhood years from then. This has him being born somewhere in 1934. It is a companion piece to my BBC Life on Mars fanfic "Ray Carling's World War II Childhood" as you can see how horrible he was to a 25 year old DI Gene Hunt and 18 year old PC Sam Tyler in the year 1988 with the next chapters set in that year.**

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"Christmas 1939 brought my fifth birthday and, with the new January term, my school life began in 1940. The country was at war and for the next five years my childhood was sharply influenced by its effects.

In preparation for the expected German bombers over our towns, the school which I was to attend had been evacuated to what was then a country village. I lived on the outskirts of Bradford so evacuation to the country meant a daily bus ride of less than ten minutes. Here, we shared a school with the local children. One week we were taught each morning and then went home for the rest of the day. The local children then attended in the afternoon. The process was reversed on the following week.

School milk, which had to be paid for in those days, had already been stopped. For our milk money, we were given Horlicks tablets at playtime. Paper had to be saved so we were given exercise books used previously by other children. We had to fill up the lines they had left at the bottom of a page or at the end of an exercise. This early period, known as the 'phoney war', brought little activity from the Germans. The immediate panic ended quickly, and we were allowed to go to the school we would normally have attended. It was perhaps a ten minute walk away from home.

Other measures which were taken lasted throughout the war. Blackout was brought in and, as our main living room was furnished with curtains running on a pole across the top of the window, a huge shawl was thrown over the top of them each evening to block out the light. One evening the shawl must have slipped and an air raid warden knocked on our door to tell us that we were showing a line of light above our curtain. This had to be put right immediately as enemy aircraft could be guided by it. Showing a light after blackout could result in a heavy fine. Lights on all road transport, including bicycles, had to be shaded. Pedestrians carried torches as the street lamps were not lit.

We were all issued with gas masks, which had to be taken everywhere with us. These were brought up to date at intervals when it was thought that some new kind of gas might be used. We had practices in school so that we would get the masks on quickly in a real emergency. They were uncomfortable appliances. Mine made a bright red mark under my chin.

There was rationing which became more stringent as the war went on. As a child I noticed particularly the very small ration of sweets we were allowed. We always went to the same sweet shop, however, and the owner worked out a special way of keeping within the ration but allowing us a few Quality Street of which I was particularly fond. Same with comics, matchbox toys and Dinky cars.

Our ration books had to be taken to the same grocer's or butcher's each week. We would be told when an allocation of tinned fruit or some other treat was to arrive in the shop. Early on the day of its arrival, a queue of determined housewives would form outside the shop door. Sometimes the allocation would run out before the end of the queue and there was much ill feeling. Frustrated housewives or shopkeepers could easily lose their tempers in war time, but generally this was not taken too seriously. I remember my mother telling us about such an occasion when she was in the butcher's. A woman in front of her in the queue was really angry with the butcher for not serving her as she wished. He stood listening as she verbally tore into him. When she had finished, he said quietly, 'You know, I like you better in your other hat.' Although food was basic and tightly controlled, I never went hungry. There were occasional treats and a clever housewife could adapt and turn out reasonably palatable meals. My worst memories are of dried egg, which was revolting, and of the cheese, which was mousetrap. I thought I didn't like cheese until well after the war, when things went back to normal. I then discovered its delights.

Clothes were also on coupons, and a new dress for a special occasion hadto be hoarded for and sacrifices elsewhere had to be made. I was lucky in having a neighbour's boy whose clothes were passed on to me. She was lucky in having some of my coupons passed on to her."

"I managed to fall asleep, but suddenly woke to find that I was alone under the table, and I could hear a most peculiar sound, which I could not recognise. I got up, and opened the door to the stairs, which were enclosed, and on looking up the stairs I saw flames leaping out from the door of my parents' bedroom. Just then my mam and brother came back into the house. They had heard a crash, and had gone outside to see what it was, and had seen flames coming from the bedroom.

From this point on it began to get a bit like Dad's Army!

Our home was also the local chip-shop. When word flashed to our neighbours in the street shelter, they all rallied round and came rushing to help put out the fire.

Being a chip-shop, my father had outbuildings where he stored tubs of potatoes, in water, ready for chipping, and several buckets with holes in the bottom with which to drain the water from these potatoes. All that these wonderfully kind (and brave) neighbours saw were buckets - useful buckets. They made a line, from the outbuilding to the house, where had been placed a ladder, and the buckets were filled with water from the tap in the outbuilding, and passed along the line. But the water was running through the holes and wetting the feet of everyone in the line - until, by the time they reached the person on the ladder, there was no water left! When this was realised, they managed to find some buckets without holes, and start again.

We rarely saw oranges or foreign-grown fruit, and bananas disappeared for the whole of the war. I was in my first year at High school (as they were then called) before I saw their return. We had a green grocer's daughter in our class and she brought a banana from the first consignment after the war. Our teacher said to her, 'Hold it up, Janet,' and to the rest of us, 'Janet's got a banana. Don't all make a rush!'

There was great encouragement to help in the war effort, the civilian effort being known as 'the Home front.' My father had lied about his age  
to get into the First World War and had been in the trenches in some of its worst battles. He was therefore very relieved to be just too old to be called up. He was, however, in this Second World War, in the Home Guard and spent Sunday mornings 'on manoeuvres.' He caused much amusement to us as he described the entire platoon crawling through the nearby woods with twigs and leaves camouflaging their tin hats.

My mother also did her bit. A neighbour was in the St John's Ambulance Brigade and held first aid classes for housewives who wished to attend. My mother practised bandages and splints on us. The neighbour's husband owned a confectioner's shop. At the end of the first aid course he produced a meat and potato pie supper for all the ladies, and I think they all enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

My older sister's class at school knitted khaki scarves or gloves for soldiers. At the beginning of the war I was too young to do this, but as we got into the Junior school we children became more aware of what was going on. Our first contribution to the war effort was probably on our way to school or in the play ground when we sang,

'It's raining, it's pouring,  
Just like silly old Goering,  
Who went to bed with a bullet in his head,  
And didn't get up next morning.'

I suppose this is an early sign of how war brings out the worst in people. At a later stage in the war, I was in my Sunday school class and we were told that if a German airman crashed into our garden, we should help him and offer him a cup of tea. One girl of about eight said, 'I wouldn't. I'd throw it over him.'

I remember hearing Lord Haw Haw on the radio with his 'Charmany calling.' He was, I believe, shot for treason after the war. In contrast to Lord Haw Haw's efforts were Winston Churchill's speeches. I remember  
listening to his rousing, 'We shall fight on the beaches. We shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall fight in the fields and in the streets. We shall fight in the hills.…. We shall never surrender!' The Battle of Britain was in 1940 as was the evacuation from Dunkirk. I knew of them, but I very much regret that I was too young to realise their significance and their historical meaning. I was very much aware of Churchill. He was affectionately known as 'Winnie' and, in the cinema, as he made his well known Victory sign on Pathé news, a cheer would go up from an appreciative audience. Propaganda was spooned out to us. There were slogans such as 'Careless talk costs lives' posted on the hoardings. We were urged to 'Dig for Victory' and to 'Lend a hand on the land'. Many people grew vegetables in their gardens, and allotments took on a new popularity. Keeping healthy was paramount and we were advised, 'Coughs and sneezes spread diseases.' To save on buying clothes we were told to 'Make-do and mend.'

As we got older, we children were able to take things more seriously. We were encouraged to save with National Savings and there were class competitions to see which class could bring the most money. We had targets to try to reach. One was a big picture of a soldier. Every time a certain amount of money was collected, his arm could be raised a little. By the time we had reached our full target, he was giving the British salute. I think that National saving stamps were 6d each. When fifteen shillings had been saved, a certificate was given and the certificate earned interest.

Every Friday afternoon we had a class auction. We all brought things  
from home which were then auctioned off by our teacher. I remember bidding something like 2d for a lemon which was terribly old and wizened. I gave it to my mother as a luxury and she looked rather surprised. There was a strong feeling of patriotism and a corporate spirit. A friend and I held a Red Cross sale outside my house. My sister painted a large red cross on plain white paper and we attached it to the front of a card table. Our mothers produced bits and pieces for the occasion and the neighbours were very good at buying from us. We made five shilling and it was announced in school. A girl in our class copied our idea. She lived on a busy main road with plenty of people passing by. She rather stole our thunder by making seven and six.

Although the situation in the early days of war was desperate, we were encouraged to take some time for relaxation. A 'Holidays at Home' scheme was developed where entertainment was provided in the parks during the summer months. There were brass band concerts, talent competitions, and variety shows were put on. Songs such as 'Hey little hen, when, when, when will you lay me an egg for my tea?' helped to bring some humour to the food shortage situation. 'We mustn't miss the last bus home', although treated comically, held the message that fuel was in short supply and if you didn't get the last bus, you walked.

Transport was badly disorganised during the war and I remember being on a train from Leeds to Bradford one night when the sirens went. The train stopped and all the lights went out. There we sat until the All Clear sounded, when we were allowed to finish our journey.

'Itma' was on radio and was another powerful weapon in raising morale and providing humour. Most of Britain tuned in on Thursday night at half past eight to hear the signature tune of 'It's that man again, yes that man again. Yes, that Mr Handley is here…' I rather think Tommy Handley invented the catch phrase and whenever possible people said, 'Can I do you now, sir?' in imitation of Mrs Mop, who was in each weekly programme. One of my favourite characters was Funf, who  
rang, presumably from Germany every week. His opening line was, 'This is Funf speaking' and was enough to send the family into shrieks of mirth. He was played by Jack Train, who also played Colonel Chinstrap, a supposedly army man and a heavy drinker. Again, his catchphrase, 'I don't mind if I do,' was used by the public on every possible occasion.

Vera Lynn sang such songs as 'There'll be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover' and 'We'll meet again. She would go to war zones abroad to give concerts for the troops. A family friend who was present at one of these concerts told us of the morale raising effect which she had on these men who knew how near was a terrifying death.

Bradford was never a particular target for the Luftwaffe. The Germans were more interested in ammunition works and docks. We did, however, have one night when bombs were dropped on the town. It was said, whether rightly or wrongly, that the bombs had not been dropped on their intended target and were being disposed of on the homeward flight. My sister and I were left in bed and did not wake up during the raid. My mother and father, with most of the neighbours, were later told off by the A.R.P. warden as they had stood outside watching the bombs drop instead of taking cover. I remember that Lingards, a department store in Bradford, received a direct hit. My mother, when shopping in the town, sometimes went to the Sundown café in Manchester Road for a cup of tea. Shortly after the raid she took us there and we were able to see the hole in the Odeon cinema roof where another bomb had fallen.

The war dragged on from the start of my Infant school days until I was ready to leave Junior school after the scholarship. Its end was celebrated first on VE Day and then on VJ Day. We had classroom parties at school to celebrate VE Day with as many delicacies as the war allowed. I believe there were street parties but I have no recollection of any of them.

Hitler and his Nazis certainly changed my childhood, and although the war was over, austerity and rationing were to last for some time. It was in this atmosphere that my secondary education began."

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 **What was interesting for me was working out how old Ray Carling was in 1988. He talks about growing up during the Second World War and he would have done National Service in 1949-1952 and stuff like that.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter** **#2:** _A Guv Who Loved his National Service days._

 **Gene and Sam are investigating a spate of estate and car robberies, but their Guv thinks it's about impressing people and playing the hero. No it isn't as their job as Manchester's two best young coppers is so much more than it seems to the eye. Set 14 or 15 years after the fateful incident with then DS Ray Carling getting caught in the jade blue Hillman Avenger estate blast.**

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"Well, if you're so sure, boss, why don't you go over and check it out?" sneered DCI Ray Carling. There was a silence, then Ray coughed. "We 'ad to get under the stairs at home. Didn't have an Anderson. We 'ad 'em at school. Had to do drill once a week. And with our gas masks. Stank they did, the rubber, remember?" Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler stared wide eyed as their Guv banged on about his World War II childhood in Manchester circa 1939-1945.

Gene and Sam look several times from the unmarked car to CID, unsure which area of the Limedale estate to start with as the Scenes of Crime officers barricade the area off to traffic, in order to preserve evidence, take photographs of the crime scenes and gather DNA samples. One of the "nameless officers" of CID hates how Gene Hunt had already become a Detective Inspector at just 25 years old, is jealous of Hunt's good looks and abhors any hard working police officers who prefer to follow the official rules.

"Do anything to try and impress you, wouldn't they?" Ray leans in closer to a WPC making her feel uncomfortable with his prescene and 70s style moustache, he was a ginger brown, but was going badly grey as he is now 54 years old. He has been a Detective Chief Inspector for nine years since DCI Williams had been pensioned off for a scandal which occurred in Greater Manchester Police since 1969, got him sent down for two years for police corruption. Gene Hunt was only a tiny toddler of six years old at the time in a backdrop of Mick Jagger, Sgt Pepper by The Beatles and the Manchester Irish community.

Detective Inspector Gene Hunt saw red with his Guv's sexist comment "It's not about impressing anyone, you moron," spat the 25 year old Gene Genie who went with uniformed Police Constable Sam Tyler "You want to be the hero, don't you? Well, go on then, Guv, it's all yours!"

"Whatever you say, Gene Genie."

"So what's the matter now, Guv? Is your bottle gone? You have to remember we coppers work _for_ each other around here, not against." DI Hunt was beginning to be irritated by his Detective Chief Inspector's attitude towards this case "If you just piss off the whole community, and then we get nowhere. We have to tread carefully."

Gene starts the Ford Sierra Sapphire RS car, reverses with a squeal of tyres and drives off down a street. A rag and bone man is crossing from his battered old Bedford CF, children are playing on brightly coloured Raleigh Burner bicycles and washing is strung on lines across the street.

"Wherever he is, you can bet your boots, these car thieves up to no good. I wouldn't trust any of them especially not since they've been flogging electronics on a dodgy market stall. I'm not letting one of them set foot in this house again, that's for sure." She asks Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler if the two very young officers would like some tea before returning to Greater Manchester Police's Stopford House station. "You not stopping for a brew?"

"No, thanks, love. Better crack on." said 25 year old Detective Inspector Gene Hunt who answers the Sierra's in-car police radio _(on the car radio):_ 870, DI Gene Hunt, the Guv is beating a suspect Brian 'O Donnelly; I need you down to the Custody wing."

Meanwhile in the Custody suite, Gene tries to restrain DCI Ray Carling from further harming Mr. 'O Donnelly in cell three, it doesn't look good on the Guv's record.

"I said that's enough! You carry on like this, and we won't get _any_ evidence, because the suspects will be dead." shouted DI Gene Hunt furious with the situation as his Guv doesn't let up with the stomach punches "And what if he's innocent? What if he gets sent down and the conviction's overturned? And as for the public's faith in the police, no one will trust us. No one!" DI Hunt empathised removing an angry DCI from the Custody wing allowing WPC Katie Wright to take over from Phyllis Dobbs. "You may have bollocks of steel, but when I'm a Guv meself: I intend to have all my officers working well as a team by the jolly old police book."

"The Guv shouldn't be here. He's got PTSD." said Detective Inspector Gene Hunt, he and two other youngsters look embarrassed. "Post-traumatic stress disorder. I've seen it before. He needs counselling, he needs someone to talk to."

Superintendent Frank Morgan accosts the three youngest officers of CID "The man's a bloody hero and he's a police officer, not a fairy!" yelled the short haired man at the desk crammed with stacks of books and folders on top.

Some children were playing a pattern game by chanting 'Red lorry, yellow lorry. Red lorry, yellow lorry. Red lorry, yellow lorry.' shouting out the colours of lorries that pass the street; they were Leyland Terriers, ERF and even Ford's own Cargo series with different liveries on the curtains, front cab and rear doors with their telephone and fax numbers printed.

"If that isn't a sign of guilt, I don't know what is."

Gene's Sierra Cosworth drives along a road wearing his seatbelt, followed by a marked police car. Sam, as usual, is in the front, hanging onto the handle as is his habit. Ray is sitting in the back. The cars pull up outside the Woodbank Community Centre.

The Guv doesn't answer, just stares straight ahead, as if he's in a trance. "Least of all the man in the back here. Eh, old Ray?" not looking at him, still numb.

Gene can tell the 54 year old man had been different ever since that incident with a blue Hillman Avenger estate car blast 14 or 15 years ago in 1973 when Carling was a younger Detective Seargent still under Salford & Manchester Police in those days. "Sorry, young Gene?" still dazed and haunted by flashbacks from being caught in the middle of the car bomb outside St. Margaret's Primary School.

"You up for it? Right, we're gonna go in hard and fast. When we're inside, we split into two teams. Okay, good luck. Let's go!" said Detective Inspector Gene Hunt who commanded the uniformed and CID officers into two teams each in such authority "And Ray. Just do as I say, all right? We don't want any mistakes. Someone could get hurt."

"What the hell happened?" asked Gene Hunt after radioing one of the policewomen for an ambulance to arrive after the Guv disobeyed the Detective Inspector's instructions on firearm usage. "I had to shoot, I'm the guv after all."

"PC Tyler and I told you to wait." Gene looks up. "Bloody hell, it's like the blind leading the deaf."

The older officer sneers and gets snappy with Hunt and Tyler "Trust who you want, young Eugene. Like I trusted a DI of mine before I got caught in the explosion 15 years ago!"

Back at the office following another lead on DCI Ray Carling's post traumatic stress disorder, Sam accidentally spooks a policewoman "Ray Carling's up to his eyeballs in debt. But you wouldn't think it, with the car that he drives, the suits that he wears." replied DI Gene Hunt having a hunch on how their Guv grew up to be such a bully, albeit a mentally ill one. "What does the Guv being in debt prove, though?"

"A few offices on Clay Street, er... a few shops on Kennel Road. Wimpy bar. A bank."

"It takes about, what, twenty minutes to get from Clay Street to Kennel Road. That gives him time to get in, get out, leave no clues. There's no CCTV on that particular street to track him, so—" working out how to follow their Guv without being detected in Gene's Sierra RS Sapphire

After today's case, all of Greater Manchester Police get to the Railway Arms pub for a drink "Well done, Sammy-boy!"

He clinks glasses with him. "'Course, he learnt from the master. No point keeping all that expertise to meself." said DI Gene Hunt proud of the younger officer and his childhood friend.

"Absolutely!" replied PC Sam Tyler with a boyish grin laughing away at himself.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter #3:**_ _Who is Gene's Guv's Mate?_

 **Gene wonders at his Guv Ray Carling spending so much time with his old school friend who also went into National Service with him in the late 1940s or early 1950s. He is an outsider looking in on his Detective Chief Inspector's early years but the old mate of his Guv gropes Detective Inspector Gene Hunt as well as a WPC and treats him just like his father did; bringing back his bad childhood memories in the 1970s as a small child.**

* * *

Gene speaks up as she puts her back to him. "Um, though – there is something I wanted to ask. You ever heard of a bloke called Peter Wright?"

"I," the police woman hesitates, thinks for a minute, then nods. "Oh yeah, you mean Petey Wright? He's an old mate of Ray's, from his National Service days, I think. He talks about him sometimes, at least when you're not around."

Gene is setting his cup back down. "You know anything about him at all?"

"Well, he's... a bit crass, and that's something of an understatement, given the sort of company Ray tends to keep." shaking her head. "Ray as our Guv seems to like him plenty, he and Ray first met back in National Service."

"Thanks, Linda." said DI Gene Hunt.

"Ray has been catching up with his good old mate, Peter Wright – playing darts, poker, lots of drinking and smoking, that sort of thing. Real man's man stuff, you know?"

"If he was such a bloody good mate, why's Ray never mentioned him before?" asked DI Gene Hunt his voice dangerously low in the corridor. When Sam tells Gene they'll be heading out to question shopkeepers along the road where Mr. Wright had been picked up.

"Got him tracking down some names for us. I was double-checking some of the facts from the original arrest report, and I think there's plenty he's not telling us – I mean, isn't that bloody obvious?"

Ray and Peter are grown men but that doesn't stop them from fighting like a pair of silly little boys. It never has.

Their luck is leading them nowhere, as the brick Motorola mobile phone signal was bad. Questioning the shopkeepers in the stores nearest where Peter was picked up has got them nothing concrete, nothing to lean on at all. Sam and Gene are starting to get frustrated. Linda wishes she'd worn a better pair of shoes.

Rolling her eyes, Linda opens the passenger's side door and slides on into her seat in Gene's Ford Sierra RS Sapphire.

It's an old house, worn but in good enough repair – even the front garden is well kept, the hedges neatly trimmed. Sam gives her a look, raises his eyebrows before turning to the front door. "I'll go first."

He knocks, waits, knocks again. The door opens abruptly, Sam's hand in mid-air. He grins, relaxes. The man on the other side is tall like Gene, worn like his house, and again in good enough repair. His tie's been loosened, he smells like whisky and smoke and way too much aftershave.

"Ah, hello there – I'm Detective Inspector Gene Hunt and this is Police Constables Sam Tyler and Linda Cartwright." said Gene Hunt explaining the enquiries "there's been some burglaries in the area, and I was hoping we could talk about..."

The man blinks, cracks a grin, eyes on Linda Cartwright. "Christ, a bloody woman copper? He's really got some explaining to do."

Gene's gaze narrows. There's some laughter in the background, all of it familiar. "So," the man's still blocking the way on into his house. "Burglaries, you say? Come on in, young coppers – mind the step there, sweet cheeks."

"Oi, Carling – do these three youngsters belong to you?" Oh, that's why the laughter had been so familiar. They get led off into a small, cramped room, one with a wide table occupying most of the free space, uncomfortable looking chairs pushed up around it. Two of them are already being used, a third as the house's owner reclaims his own. Ray blows out smoke, rolls his eyes.

Ray doesn't seem happy to see either of them, and that says nothing compared to the daggers Gene's currently shooting his way, all thanks to his very narrowed blue eyed gaze.

"Guv?" asked the young Gene Genie.

"Oh bloody hell, Gene! How'd I know it would be you?" He stands up, and there's nothing pleased about him, not as he pushes the chair back and instead stomps on over to Sam.

"I have not been following you! We got a match on a name and an address, that's the only reason we're here!' They loom a bit closer at each other, face to face, the anger barely hidden. "Just what are you doing – oh!" Gene leans back, a bare fraction of a breath. "So this is the great Peter Wright."

That's it! Petey laughs, tips his glass back. "So you've heard of me? Christ, Hunt, you look like you've barely even started puberty!"

She scowls at Ray critically, it's clear she's judging him. "Honestly, Ray, you're supposed to be working!"

He laughs and rubs at his cheek. "Just following the Guv's lead."

"Right, because that's all your bloody capable of, isn't it? You never take any initiative, you never –" Linda Cartwright stops, startled. She hadn't noticed Peter getting up from his seat. She had, though, noticed him pinching her arse.

"Come on, sweet cheeks – just calm a bit, eh? Your Guv..."

Linda turns about sharply, smacks his arm with her handbag – followed up by a proper slap to the cheek, her palm stinging from the aftershock. "How bloody dare you! Never touch me again!"

His eyes are wide, he's rubbing at his cheek – it's red from where she'd smacked him good and hard – but the bastard has the nerve to start laughing, and the worst part is, so does Ray.

"You... you are not taking this case seriously. This isn't a joke, I mean, after your brother..." Sam stops, steels himself as Gene flinches, his Guv Ray and his mate Peter remind the 25 year old of his own father in various flashbacks.

"Gene - what's wrong, mate?" said PC Sam Tyler terrified for his best friend.

"Shut it! Just shut it for once, please! Yes, it would be bloody nice if if we could rid the streets of his sort of scum completely, but for the time being we need to do it one vile bastard at a time!" in a panicked high pitched voice trying to stop himself to regressing back to the small child he was in the 1970s.

"It's going be okay, Detective Inspector Gene Hunt." replied the 18 year old Police Constable, he couldn't bare to see his childhood best friend like this in a state being reminded of his violent father on this case.

Peter's not much pleased to see them, but Sam doesn't let that throw a spanner into the works. No, he shoves Ray's former school friend about the way that Gene might have showed him, lets Linda and the two Uniform they'd brought along with them watch as he manhandles the bloke into his cuffs and read the pre 1994 police cautioning.

Something good has to come out of this, but what it might be, Uniform couldn't imagine it in a million years.

And he treats Sam and Gene differently than he does anyone else.

"He groped me, Guv – I'm not telling the bloke I'm sorry, not when he's the sodding pervert!" yelled DI Gene Hunt "You're skating on bloody thin ice here, Guv!"

"...I want you to apologise to Petey, Tyler and Hunt. He didn't deserve you nosing about his place like he was a common piece of scum!" shouted DCI Ray Carling sternly with military precision.

"He's a relic of a bloody different age – look at what he did to Linda, my best mate Sam Tyler and me. Guess that makes him an uncommon piece of scum." Ray chuckles, knocks his shoulder against Gene's. "Leave the WPC's alone, Guv." said DI Gene Hunt standing up against corruption in the Greater Manchester Police CID.

"Well, hopefully you won't be on your own... Wright's a bit of an old-fashioned bastard. He's probably too thick to know when enough's enough. Not too surprised that such a chauvinistic prick is one of the Guv's very best mates." replied Linda Cartwright to Gene and Sam.

Sam sighs. Petey's house is in sight now, and Gene stops the car outside it.

Petey chuckles. "No problem, mate – I remember how it is."

Sam raises an eyebrow in shocked amazement. "You were a police officer?"

"Oh aye – retired early, just a few years back." He taps his right knee, hard. "Bum knee – thing's never been the same."

It was a shock to the system as well, hearing old Petey Wright used to be a police officer.

"Yeah, I know that, you bloody div... Ray's my old mate from National Service. Remember?"

Sam goes with Gene Hunt. Linda's left with implicate orders: stay there until uniform arrive, and make sure Petey goes to the station. Seeing as it's all she can do at this point, she's going to do the best job she can.

That means it's time for Linda to drive the Sierra RS Sapphire back to the station, and Petey along with it.

They're safely in the car when she poses her next questions: "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you're into drugs – do you just take them, or are you a dealer?"

He gives a bitter sounding laugh. "I smoke a bit of weed, it helps manage my pain." His knee – of course.

Gene has always believed he's an awful actor. He can only play the part on undercover stings because his aliases are so like him- working-class, tough upbringing, the sort who believe troubled upbringings can actually sort things. He hides behind a personality mask most of the time, doesn't make eye contact, and it all works. He looks so smart, but he's still just a boy really; her little boy. Denise Hunt smiles at herself.

" _Mum!_ I'm going to be late!" moaned DI Gene Hunt wearing his black leather jacket, a denim jacket, black t-shirt and jeans with Chelsea snakeskin style boots.

"Don't argue with me, Genie." She folds her arms and looks at him sternly. "Come here and give your mum a kiss."

As he does head for his latest shift, bent old Mr Jones from number 23, shuffling past with the scruffy dog that's as arthritic as he is - everyone round here in Salford knows how proud she is of her son, the police officer.

Gene shuffles his feet, embarrassed.

"What's the matter, ashamed of your mother?"

"Never, you're a great mum. Just, you know..." He straightens up. "Shift starts in ten minutes, that's all. Mustn't be late for the new DCI Harry Woolf."

* * *

 **This is where a 25 year old DI Gene Hunt meets his mentor DCI Harry Woolf after he replaces DCI Ray Carling for overlooking his old school friend's illegal drug usuage and suspected of smoking cannabis.**


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter_** _ **#4** :_ _A Passion For the Police Force._

 **Gene's beloved mum has an argument with a dole dosser who has been hanging around around her front door. However the young Gene Genie gets his hands on a brand new Casio digital watch in silver and a new Raleigh Burner BMX bicycle as he wants to show his little mates what he has got from his Greater Manchester Police wages.**

* * *

"What are you saying, young man - our Gene's not at work?" yelled Denise Hunt "You're a fucking dole dosser mate!" looking over her shoulder into the house arguing with a never do well.

"Hey, haven't finished with you! How dare you disrespect adults, I feel like having a word with your mother!" said Denise Hunt still angry with the layabout dole dosser at her front door who had red hair, piercings, a novelty t-shirt in white, ripped jeans, customised monkey boots and looks like he's been drinking far too much alcohol does he think she doesn't know the signs? She steps forward, gesturing angrily.

He walks slowly back up the path as she speaks slowly, working it out.

"This doesn't make sense. Our Gene's mad for this job, been looking forward to it since he was fifteen in 1978! At least he's out there being useful. Unlike some I could mention!" She's furious now.

"...my Gene is a good lad, and a good copper, and he would never go off from his duty unlike the drinking, chain smoker and pervy Guv he had before DCI Harry Woolf stepped in! Gene's brought money in the family and everything. He's done very well for himself and he'd never do anything to risk that!" Mrs. Hunt was still furious with her young neighbour "He's always done right by his girlfriend has my Gene, and he's a good lad to his mum, too. He went off to work just the same as usual this morning. I was here, I watched him go in that brand new E registration Ford Sierra RS Sapphire of his."

Gene returns home as it was clocking off time and he wants to try out his new Raleigh Super Burner BMX bicycle around the back streets of Salford doing all sorts of mad tricks.

He squirms impatiently. "Mum, give _over_. I'm a big boy now, can look after myself!" He steps back, her handsome son, brushing at his face as if to clean it, but he's smiling still.

"You're right, mum. Son to be proud of, me." He grins at her but can't help sneaking a look at his brand new Casio digital watch in silver. She gives him a gentle shove as mum and son have a mess around.

"Go on then. Don't want you being regarded as not 'cool' in front of your little mates." said Denise Hunt trying to think of which words today's bright young things used in the 1980s. A son to be proud of, indeed.

She watches as he walks down the street pushing his shiny new Burner bicycle and then hopping on to the blue plastic seat.

"...you drunken lummox; no wonder you're a drug dealer to that early retired police officer Peter Wright and his scummy mate Ray Carling who used to be nothing but a bully in my Genie's police station!"

"He's a canny lad, your Gene. Got the makings of a good DCI when he grows up." smirked and laughed the layabout neighbour off his head on crack cocaine.

In 1963, Gene Hunt was born, she sets him up with a junior savings account in her local National Bank of Westminster branch in Salford, Manchester; kept the book safe on the mantel for him, next to his picture of him as a bonny little baby for the best part of 25 years, especially when they changed to decimalisation.

In 1973, Gene Hunt has his 10th birthday and his mum just has to get a phone put in by the Post Office Telecommunications engineers who arrived in a Commer van with the Buzby slogan on it in yellow.

In 1983, she has her fortieth birthday and celebrates it with her 20 year old son Gene Hunt, who had only been a Police Constable in Greater Manchester Police for nearly a year; her old friend Margaret brings a cake over and they all have a cup of tea together.

One son, one snapshot of his 25 years in 1988.

* * *

 **The years 1963 - 1983 show how baby Gene Hunt grows into this passionate police officer in front of his mum's eye as a upstanding Detective Inspector in 1988 at 25 years old.**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter #5:**_ _Gene's a Mummy's Boy._

 **Gene is such a good natured mummy's boy for Denise Hunt. His girlfriend Kate works at a local nursery school in Salford, Manchester. And what has become of DCI Ray Carling and Peter Wright since the investigation?**

* * *

Mrs Hunt's seething anger towards her dole dosser neighbour was in the right places; when he banged on her front door and hung around her front garden.

Gene was always very conscious about keeping the streets safe for his mum, and she captures perfectly that still-a-boy-almost-a-man aspect of 25-year-old Gene, who's a bit of a mummy's boy, but is so good-natured about it. That's something she's very familiar with, as I guess are most mothers of teenage and young adult boys.

Gene had experienced being shot while wearing a bulletproof vest a couple of times during his tenure as a PC in 1982-1985, and he vividly remembered the painful bruises he had carried for over a week after each incident.

Katie straightens up and strokes her hand through his hair, proprietary. "I trust you. The very fact that you told me this proves I can trust you." She lets go and walks over to the table to grab her bag. Gene checks the clock and his silver digital Casio watch - she'll be late for school at this rate. And it's Friday, she'll have that nursery class pulling at her hair and generally trying her patience.

Now, don't talk daft," he said softly. "We've been together since we were 19 in 1982. Since I was a flatfoot Police Constable. It's not gonna change now."

 _ **Christmas 1988**_

Kate never made much food on Christmas Day. Gene always told her to cook, he'd be there, he'd be at the table in time, but inevitably his work came first. Which was exactly what she'd known before she'd married him, and it was still exactly why she never made much food.

Gene sighed even this year, having just put down the red landline phone, shrugging on his winter coat.

"Crime just doesn't appreciate a well-cooked turkey, does it?" Kate chuckled, arms folded and feeling oddly cold. Gene glanced up from where he'd been rooting in the fruit bowl for his keys and warrant card.

"Love, y'know I've got teh go…"

"Every year," she said quietly, still smiling. "I know. It'll still be here when you get back." Brushing aside frustration and not a little bit of anger, she kissed Gene on the cheek. "Catch scum for me, yeah? And give 'em a handcuff from me for makin' you miss dinner."

She laughed a very child like laugh. "No you're not. You're being _romantic_. It's very, very far from typical behaviour, you great sod."

Gene counted the day he saw the furnished red Ford Sierra RS Sapphire in the car lot across the street as one of the best of his life, other than bagging Kate way back in 1982 when they were still kids.

DCI Ray Carling has been pensioned off in disgrace from the Greater Manchester Police force for hiding his past with Peter Wright on suspicion of illegal drug use because it was thanks to DI Gene Hunt and his best friend PC Sam Tyler finding out, the two men knew each other from school in World War II Manchester in 1939-1945 before starting their National Service and joining the Lancashire Police service in 1953 when they were 19 years of age before transferring to Greater Manchester Police's 'A' Division 1967 onwards under the former name of Salford and Manchester Police.

* * *

 **A lovely Christmas ending to the fanfic Ray Carling's World War II childhood with a 25 year old Gene Hunt and his girlfriend Kate in 1988, his previous DCI, Ray Carling has been suspended off the Greater Manchester Police for hiding his past with old school friend Peter Wright. I wanted to see Gene finally get the mentor he's always dreamed of in the form of DCI Harry Woolf who would eventually help Gene become a DCI, nine years later in 1997.**


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter #6: Ray Carling at a Greater Manchester Police Dinner and Dance._

 **Years later in 2006, an elderly ex DCI Ray Carling talks about his World War II childhood during a Greater Manchester Police Dinner and Dance, two now DCIs Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler haven't a clue about growing up in those days as they wouldn't be born until 1963 and 1970 approximately.**

* * *

Ray paused for a moment, then gave in and started to talk. "We 'ad to run out into the play ground. We all knew which shelter we should be in. Had our names checked off. At first, it was fun, almost, like a game. But then…after the blitz. Christmas..."

ARP?" DCIs Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt frowned. "What…"

There was a silence in the audience around their tables, then Ray coughed. "We 'ad to get under the stairs at home. Didn't have an Anderson. We 'ad 'em at school. Had to do drill once a week. And with our gas masks. Stank they did, the rubber, remember?"

Sam could hear now that Ray was definitely short of breath, and wondered what state he had been since Gene last saw him way back in 1988, just before Ray was pensioned off for covering up his old school friend Peter Wright's involvement in groping women police officers and those who were baby faced like Gene Hunt.

We 'ad to sing songs," Ray continued. "And sometimes, at night, if the bombs weren't close, we could go outside an' see the flashes."

"When the siren went off it weren't too bad. They were often false alarms. If you heard the ack-ack then you knew it were real, and you really ran for cover, 'specially if it were close. Sometimes you'd hear the engines of the planes, but worse was the V twos. You heard 'em, and it were okay. Then they'd go silent and you'd know someone was going to cop it."

Sam and Gene tried to imagine what it would have been like as a child to experience what the likes of Ray Carling had experienced as a child in World War II, but couldn't; they wondered how many of the others back in the 1970s generation of Greater Manchester Police CID had such stories to tell.

Ray remembered the night that the V two had hit their house – the noise and dust as the entire world seemed to cave in on them. He had screamed, curled up in a ball and stuck as far under their stairs as he could fit. He had stayed there until the noise had stopped and the biting cold wind had found him. When he finally raised his head and opened his eyes he had been able to see the stars where their kitchen had once been, and could still hear the bombs in the distance. He remembered looking into the lifeless glassy eyes of his mother as she lay amid the wreckage of their house, her body broken and bloody. Most of all he remembered the feeling of guilt that he, the man of the house, had been unable to protect her. And the all-consuming fear that he alone would face his father, when he returned from the front, and have to admit to his failure and accept the consequences.

He had sat with her body, shivering in his pyjamas, until the mournful wail of the all-clear had sounded across the city and the neighbours had found him. He had never seen his mother again.

"When I were a kid," Ray said, breaking the silence. "Me an' some mates went exploring in one of the mills. It'd been bombed out. We were playin', even though we'd been told not to."

"Yeah. We nearly copped it. A wall collapsed, we were trapped. Place started filling with water. A mains 'ad cracked. And then the sirens started goin'. We got out, soaked to the skin an' cold an' hurt, then had to get home an' try to explain it."

"Oh. Your parents must have been worried." answered one of the older ex CID police officers.

"Was after they'd both died," Ray answered. "Warden beat me black an' blue though."

Ray turned, shining the torch into his eyes. "I deserved it," he answered. "We were always bein' told not to go near bombsites."

"No," Sam shook his head. "I meant about…your parents."

"Oh." Ray turned away again, walking on, ducking under things. "Weren't like I were the only one. Most families lost someone. She copped it in the blitz, few weeks later they brought me the telegram, sayin' me old man weren't coming back neither."

Ray turned and looked at Gene and Sam again, wondering why the other much younger men were vaguely interested. "Same as happened to all the other kids. Why do you care?"

"Oh. Evacuated?" Gene asked talking his way around World War II history, he wished he'd paid more attention in school about this in his History lessons.

Ray turned and carried on at the podium "We got took up to the Pennines, some nights, when they thought we'd be bombed. Got put on busses or trains and given a blanket each, and a bottle of milk."

Mr. Carling's nightmares always featured the bombed-out shells of old factories and houses – the streets that filled his sleeping hours were always grey, and he was always alone. The outlines were usually silhouetted against the sky, making the empty wrecks seem somehow even more devoid of life as they towered over him menacingly.

Ray would have grown up totally exposed to the most extreme violence you can imagine. It's something he can't (and won't let go of either!) I can't imagine what kids would do when not only were their families suddenly ripped apart, but there was this constant threat hanging over them. Maybe very small children could have had the true implications hidden from them.

The former CID officers born in the 1920s-1940s and Ray would both have been old enough to understand. And there was none of this sissy counselling - if you got a telegram in the morning saying your dad was dead, then you still went to school like any other day. Everyone was going through the same thing.

* * *

 **DCIs Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler get a bonus history lesson at the Greater Manchester Police Dinner Dance even though the duo weren't born until 1963 and 1970, only vaguely knowing about World War II in their school lessons during Year 6 aged 10-11 years old.**


End file.
